Pinstripe and paisley.

Two mismatched mattresses lay stacked in defeat at the foot of the dumpster outside of my kitchen window. One is yellow with green and mauve pinstripes and the other is beige with a brown paisley overlay. It is a funny picture, really. On one hand, the imagery is terribly depressing just knowing someone used to sleep upon them with satisfaction. But yet there they lay in the rain that falls in curtains, decidedly cast to the wayside thanks to a few unruly springs in the ribs, a lump here, a dip there, a stain that will not wipe out for anything, a corner of frayed piping, and the concave burrow that is expanding at a mysterious rate. On the other hand, they look surprisingly inviting and beguiling almost, even though I should know better.

Just looking out the window, my hands are on the verge of unfolding from their position of calm, rising to tap out another sentence, slowing, lifting two inches above the keys with fingers still bent in familiar form and readiness, stopping, hemming and hawing with hesitation, wiping the hair from my face with determination, closing the computer, pushing bodily weight against the chrome ridge of the kitchen table, sliding back down to a resting place near my thighs, bending and cupping the air naturally as my body rises upright, moving back up to straighten my shirt, patting the creases from my jeans, wiping the table out of habit, pushing in the chair, brusquely taking the keys from the hook on the wall, grazing the floor to pick up the fallen articles from the key hook, opening the door, clicking the lock, sliding the keys into my breast pocket, swinging in time with the stride of my legs, jerking with each drop of a step, pushing open the exterior door, pausing midair to rest my rain streaked face in their familiar darkness, swiping away rain for nothing, buttoning a button, nervously picking at unseen lint while the rest of my body tries to catch up with my brain. They are so close to picking up those mattresses, dragging them out of the rain, and giving them to someone who won't notice the spring in the rib, or those stains, or the frayed piping. Someone who won't need convincing that they are lovely, that they need to be loved.

My hands always seem to know what to do first in times of crisis or triumph. Right now they are typing. I wish they were wrapped around someone's sleeping form instead. I promise will leave the mattresses be for now, dejected and alone; but I can't help looking at them with softness in my heart. The rain rains on and so do my eyes.















post script: this photo is dedicated to all the Myspace tripping teens out there who just LOOOOOOOVE their unoriginal mirror self portraits. I am an ugly weeper, it is no secret. I have laughed heartily at this photo since it was taken last night. (And yes, I am wearing a backwards hat). Enjoy.